A Hunter Walks Into A House
by FraterKiller
Summary: A post-apocalyptic comment fic I wrote a long time ago: Dean's immortal and alone, roaming the land and going from settlement to settlement. When he passes through South Dakota, he decides to go somewhere that's well overdue for a visit. Any errors you see are what I didn't bother fixing.


AN: I can't believe I wrote this almost two years ago. I'm surprised at how far my writing has gone. Enjoy!

* * *

Dean can't remember the last time he laughed.

He thinks it was sometime before Sam died, before the angels left earth to its own devices after demonically-aided World War Three began; way before America was hit by multiple nuclear bombs and was turned into a wasteland of dirt and bones and riddled by disease and death. Although the details are a little fuzzy, he knows that the only reason he survived was because he had agreed to give his body up for those short, very few seconds to Michael. After being ridden like a condom, killing Lucifer and being upgraded to Dean 3.0, he'd been left on the ground to die of sensory overload and blood loss.

After recovering from injuries he shouldn't have recovered from, he realized that he hadn't gotten sick once or aged a day after the fact.

Fucking angels.

So when he drives the Impala (beaten, scarred and dirty, but still plugging, the good old girl that she is) to Bobby's old place, he's surprised to recognize the huffing wheeze wiggling out of his lungs might be just that.

A laugh.

Again, fucking angels.

He scuffs his worn boots on the ground in front of the weathered, towering two-story. He cranes his neck and catalogs the damage to the roof, watches the shutters flop open and closed in the _(late fall? he's not sure anymore)_ afternoon wind. He's pretty sure it's only structure left standing in South Dakota, thanks to Bobby's extra protections placed on the property.

He looks around and his gaze narrows on a huge poplar tree next to the sagging fence. He walks over and squats down, and after a moment of hesitation, moves a handful of gravel off a glowing sigil. After a moment's inspection, he moves onto the next.

And the next.

He sees that they're cemented by blood magic and something darker. It reeks of the defeat of demons; a static charge buzzing over his skin like the tazer that almost killed him over twenty years ago. There are a lot of power in these wards, and they aren't going anywhere.

He knows that Bobby's protections were a last ditch effort; feels it down in his soul. It's a very unpleasant for him, knowing the sprawling seals and ancient letters are a dying man's last _'goddamn every last one of ya to the deepest bowels of Crowley's playground'_ to the world. It speaks of familiarity of a man he held dear, and Bobby's unintentional message has Dean grinning. He can feel the scar on his cheek twisting grotesquely with the motion.

Once he's finished inspecting the warding, he gets up to lock his car. It's only a force of habit, since there's nobody around here to steal anything. If he had been in the cities, it would have been a different matter, but this part of America seemed to be uninhabited.

He meanders his way up the steps, the wood washed out and gray from years of the sun before it hid behind the Haze for good. The porch is very brittle and is in the beginning stages of decomposition, so he wastes little time in finding the safest boards to walk on.

He opens the screen door, picks the three – blessed iron and warded, again – locks on the second and pushes it open. It swings inward, motioning at the dusty interior. He indulges a moment to reminisce.

There are stacks of books in every corner, covered in thick dust. They cover tables and shelves and every other surface he can see, and when he looks down, there's a dried up pool of something that might be old blood on the entry rug.

He enters and kneels down once more, adjusting the machete at his hip with one hand as he ruffles through a few papers with the other.

He's missed this place, and he thinks this trip was long overdo.

"Hi there!" Dean jumps at the cheerful voice, spinning around and half-drawing his blade. Floating an inch away from his nose is a transparent figure, with inquisitive blue eyes and black hair that reaches his shoulders.

Dean _knows_ that face.

"Who the fuck're you?" His voice is gravel on sandpaper and sounds wholly unwelcoming. The spirit has the grace to look flustered.

"Uh, sorry! It's just been so long before I've talked to somebody. And learning how to become solid," the spirit gestures up and down his body, "was a _bitch_ to learn." The ghost's mouth is working rapidly, and the movement is very different on this person's face than it was on Cass's. "I'm Jimmy," the entity says. "Or, at least, I think that's my name. What's yours?"

Dean doesn't know whether to feel relieved that he has someone to talk to, or to curse at the red sky and his rotten luck.

He weighs the pros and cons of answering.

"Nate," he finally says. Names have power, after all, and the last thing he's going to do is give his name to a _ghost._ He might not be able to kick the bucket, but that doesn't mean he wants to be tortured for the rest of his life by some kind of beyond the veil hoodoo shit.

The ghost stretches out his hand to shake, but after a flat look from the hunter, he sheepishly retracts the appendage. Dean doesn't take his hand off his blade. If Jimmy went psycho, the machete was blessed and soaked in holy water.

"You _think_ your name is Jimmy?" He nods, strangely soft-looking hair flipping up and down with the motion. Dean's somewhat reminded of a puppy.

"Yeah. It's all I can remember of _before_." Jimmy emphasizes the last word like it's something special.

"You been here long?" The ghost shrugs.

"Dunno. Time passes differently, now." Dean gets it, he really does. Being immortal is the pits.

Dean nods and strolls through the house, gauging the damage and eying the mess. It looked like Bobby had been in the middle of a huge project before being interrupted. In the living room, there's a miniature army of small, potted herbs covering a part of the rug. They're all dead and dried out, but he recognizes most of them, and there are a ton of seeds. Curious, he opens up a wardrobe next to the fireplace and sees bundles of vegetable seeds carefully marked and organized. Idly, he wonders how much they'd go for at a trading center. An arm, a leg and a bottle of Jack, probably.

When he opens the other door, he sees an old notebook. He flips through it, and his fingers trace over instructions for growing conditions for specific plants in Bobby's neat, orderly handwriting.

It looks like he might be able to get a garden growing.

Jimmy hovers behind him, eyes wide. "I could never get that open," he says, a little awed. Dean sets the notebook back and closes the door.

"No wonder," Dean answers, "those protection symbols on the knobs would of stopped you from even touching it." His gut tightens when he realizes it meant that Bobby had been prepared for the apocalypse to happen.

He turns and begins his trek upstairs, deep in thought, but testing each plank before setting his full weight down.

After a the third bedroom was cleared and declared safe, Dean becomes a little irritated at Jimmy's hovering.

"Well, _Jimmy_," he says. The spirit perks to attention, eyes bright. "Anybody been here lately?" Inspection done for now, Dean walks into the kitchen and opens up the fridge, curious and a little apprehensive at the idea of what he might find.

He isn't surprised that the appliance isn't working (it's common knowledge that all the electric and gas companies were wiped out a long time ago) but he _is_ pleasantly surprised to find a few lukewarm beers stashed away in the back.

He just hopes they're still good. He hasn't had a beer in _ages._

"Uh, no." The ghost leans over Dean, trying to see what he's doing. Dean grabs a beer and straightens up quickly, and Jimmy slides back before Dean turns around. The Hunter heads over to the table, wiping the dust off a chair with his hand and wiping it on his equally dusty jeans before sitting down and popping the lid off the bottle with a dirty thumbnail.

"Good." Jimmy's face brightens.

"You're going to live here?" Dean shrugs and drinks his warm beer.

"…might as well." Jimmy jumps in excitement and blinks out of existence at this, and the Hunter can't help but grin a little over the rim of the can. Seeing a ghost go into conniptions over four words? It's the goddamn funniest thing he's seen in seven years.

He's glad he came back.


End file.
